


From The Ashes Of All The Crashes

by AlmostMedieval



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Death of a minor character, Episode Tag, Gen, M/M, Post-Breaking Point, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostMedieval/pseuds/AlmostMedieval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in the dusty basement falls strangely quiet as soon as they see Gene charging through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Ashes Of All The Crashes

**Author's Note:**

> Original AN: 'My first fic, beta'd by the amazing [Dev](http://neil-alexander.tumblr.com) who helped me so much.'
> 
> So I wrote this about 5 years ago for the HBO War-A-Thon on tumblr and thought it was finally time to post this on a platform I actually use. Obviously there's no guarantee for the quality of the first real fic I ever wrote 5 long years ago!

Everyone in the dusty basement falls strangely quiet as soon as they see Gene charging through the door, seemingly comforted by his presence and trusting him to save their friend, their Jackson. They hardly dare to move until he asks for light. Skinny offers his lighter, holding it where Gene needs it. The chaos that reigned only seconds before is forgotten as they all focus on the boy and his would-be saviour.

They all hear Jackson’s whimper and it chills them to the core, it takes all they have not to let it show on their faces.

The sudden burst of movement comes almost as a shock, shattering the uneasy stillness that had solidified around them. An explosion rocks the basement and Jackson renews his cries, begging for his life. Gene shouts in an effort to calm him down and the last of the stillness is broken.

They have to set the stretcher down on the floor as Jackson thrashes and Gene holds him in his arms, promises of life falling on deaf ears as he makes one last struggle against the fire in his lungs and finally stills.

Babe can feel Gene’s gaze on his face, heavy and searching, moving over his body as if to assure himself that it wasn’t Babe that was hit, that he’s still here. He slowly raises his eyes to meet Gene’s and his insides knot at the raw emotion he sees.

Babe has to look away, quite nearly overcome with the same sense of futility and sheer anger he felt when he heard that Bill had been hit and he was stuck under the tree, the safest of all of them.

When Martin takes the blanket from Skinny’s shoulder to cover Jackson with, he shrouds the room in a thick, uneasy silence. The men gathered in the dimly lit basement look at the olive lump and away again, thanking god it wasn’t them and feeling terrible for the poor boy, because Christ, he was just a boy.

The men look at each other, seeking comfort and offering it in turn, reassuring themselves that they’re still here, they will see another day. They’ve lost so many friends, soldiers, _brothers_. They have time to grieve now that they’re not in the heat of battle and they do, faces crumpling and shoulders shaking.

Babe needs air; the room is thick with smoke and mourning. He can still feel Jackson’s fingers gripping his arm, attempting to hold onto his life, to ground himself. He can still feel the loss of his best friends, raw and throbbing every time he stops long enough for it to catch up with him.

He climbs the stairs and looks around the darkened village, breathing in, breathing out. He can hear the river, the injured Kraut they left on the other bank, crying out for death. The words he uses make no sense to Babe, he’s not Liebgott or Webster, but he understands what he’s asking for. He was injured by the same grenade that killed Jackson and for a moment Babe doesn’t know which he pities more, a dying Kraut or a dead American. He just wants to be put out of his misery - don’t we all?

Babe adjusts his rifle on his shoulder and tightens his jacket around himself, still feeling the cold of the woods, right down to his bones. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel warmth again; he’ll always carry a piece of Bastogne with him. He reaches into a pocket, drawing out a rumpled packet of Lucky Strikes and lighting one, sheltering the flame with his hand from the light breeze blowing through the streets.

Babe decides to walk - to where he doesn’t know - keeping close to the buildings. He walks and walks, trying to ignore his thoughts and failing. Jackson’s eyes, terrified. The sob he let out as Gene examined him, broken. Gene’s hands, holding Jackson still, his calming, blood-stained hands. Babe remembers how those hands felt, bandaging the cut on his own from Gene’s trench knife. He remembers those hands offering him chocolate as he lay in his foxhole thinking of Julian. He remembers those hands.

He hears his name being called, he turns. Gene (Gene, never Doc, not now) is standing there, face twisted with concern and shoulders heavy with the weight of the men they all called friends no longer with them.

At Babe’s nod Gene falls into step with him until they stop, leaning against the wall of another bombed out building, just like all of the other towns and villages they’ve rolled through. The silence is just as heavy here as it was in the basement and Babe can’t stand it, so he offers the medic a smoke. Babe watches the glowing tip of Gene’s cigarette through the thick shadows surrounding them, eyes pouring over the planes of his face, bathed in orange when he inhales and getting brighter with each draw.

They converse with stunted speech; half finished sentences and mumbled words. Babe knows what Gene’s thinking about, what’s keeping him so quiet. - Not that he’s normally forthcoming in conversations. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s on his mind. He didn’t get there fast enough, he didn’t work hard enough, he didn’t _do_ enough. Gene blames himself for Jackson dying, just like he blames himself for all of the other men he’s felt slip away beneath his fingertips; men he was supposed to save.

Babe throws his smoke on the ground, watches as the tip slowly fades into the shadows. Another beacon going out, they’ve lost their way in the dark.

He turns to Gene and tells him 3 things; he tells him that he misses Julian, that he still carries it with him, still laments that fact he couldn’t get to him like he promised he would every day.

He tells him that he’s sick of this war, that he honestly doesn’t understand it anymore and that he wishes it would just end so that he could go home.

And then Babe tells Gene that it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that Jackson died, that Hoobler died, that any of them did. And Gene? Gene listens to him. He tells him it’s not his fault, and he feels Gene breathe a little easier beside him, shoulders slumping even further than they were when Babe first saw him. It wasn’t his fault.


End file.
